Restoration
by WriteToLive
Summary: Very short ficlet. Jack muses on his situation post S4.


Restoration

There's heat here, and it reminds him of LA. Not all the time though, because it rains here too. It never rains much in LA.

He stares out of the dirty window, down onto a crowded street and wonders whether there really is safety in numbers. Is he really less likely to be spotted if he lives in a city? Even if he's more obvious as the only gringo in a small town, surely he could find somewhere where they'd never look? He weighs the odds as he stares down at the street, but doesn't move. In the end, it doesn't matter. He's dead either way.

A woman talked to him last night as he left the grocery store. She had long dark hair like most other women here, but she's the first one thats reminded him of Claudia. His heart had beaten faster for a moment, shocked into reminding him that he was alive – but it slowed under the pressing remembrance of guilt. He hadn't taken her away and she had died. He wished it were an exclusive club, but the truth was…she was just joining a hundred or so others that had died because of him. And he was with her now wasn't he? He had killed himself. But he didn't get the benefit of Heaven. At least he knew there really was such a thing as life after death. Too bad it was the same one.

There's food in the dirty refrigerator that he hasn't got around to cleaning yet. He remembers that someone once told him that there was pleasure to be found in cooking your own food, that it connects you to something real. You get to create, every night. He's tried it and it made him sick. He's never been much of a creator. Quite the opposite.

He did once though. His one masterpiece. She's sitting in Valencia, maybe she's even crying over him. He knows he's cried over her, because she's almost as dead as he is. Dead men don't get to keep their kids. And anyway, it's not like he hasn't tried to destroy his own work of art over the years. Not on purpose, but still. Maybe Chase can restore her to something she once was, or at least paint over the cracks that her father created. Restoration is a beautiful thing, but you need someone to do it. Funny how love can fill most holes.

He turns from the window and stares at his surroundings. Everything is grey. No colour, no life. Everything's drab. There's no point in trying to make it any different because he's just passing through. Just like he's been passing through everywhere else for two months now. Strange that it all looks the same after a while. And what to do? No job to go to. No one needs his help. No one calls to talk or see how he's doing. No news to impart to friends and no one to meet for lunch. He's hungry, but it's a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he should try creating something. The thought draws a small smirk. _Try that again, you really will be dead_. And the smile fades when he remembers – he really is dead anyway.

So…what? He thinks there really should be a way to find life again. But there are only a few things he knows how to do. And at this time, in this place – well, he'd be a time traveller wouldn't he? Because the only thing he can do is go back to Ramon. Except that Ramon's dead too – but there are more like him that still breathe. It's an option. He thinks on it for the few minutes a day he allows himself to, then discards it as he always does. Being dead does not give him the right to become a criminal. It was allowed when he was alive but not anymore. It's the one thing he can do to make all this bearable. Strange that the lines that were blurred a few months ago are clearer now. He won't cross them.

There's a heavy sigh that doesn't shift the weight on his back. Restoration. How do you do it when there's nothing left to build from? He fell off his pedestal a long time ago and there's no one to pick up the pieces. At least his legs were glued back on in time for him to run, but on days like these, he wonders if it was worth it. The heart of him stayed on the floor when he got up and walked and he can never go back to get it. The shell floats aimlessly and now it's too late, he's a nameless entity that has no choice but to drift on.

He strokes his own white cheek and the clock ticks on the wall. He sits and the hunger continues to knaw. But he can't create, no matter how often he tells himself that he's a blank canvas. He knows it's not true. He's an over-paint. The dirty original is still visible beneath the poor cover and cracks are already beginning to show. He's no artist. Can't restore himself.

He stares at the wall and eternity stretches before him. But she doesn't fade from his head and that's how he knows that somehow, he still lives. Not here…but somewhere, in a quiet corner of his baby's mind, he had a life once. And that's what gives him the energy to keep breathing in this death of his. He knows he may never lay eyes on her again but still, he'll borrow her colour to keep himself moving - while a tiny part of him dares to hope that one day, someone might find him worthy of restoration.


End file.
